Nothing triggers the onset of monomania faster than motherhood. In no time at all, a formerly independent and urbane young woman is transformed into a baby-­obsessed, sleep-­deprived zombie who has no clue what’s going on in the world at large but is disturbingly familiar with the colour, consistency and frequency of a small person’s bowel movements.
​I say that to indicate that I am fully aware of what has happened to me over the past year, though I’ve been powerless to stop it. In my defense, I haven’t morphed into the mom who floods her friends’ newsfeeds with countless photos of her child doing mundane things. On the other hand, I have become the kind of mother who rarely goes anywhere that babies aren’t welcome: No clubs, no bars and just one all-too-short trip to the movies without the Boss Lady (as she’s known in certain circles).